


Grounded

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the scene at the Gorbeau tenement, Marius has only one place to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosettethelark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosettethelark/gifts).



> It's my first time writing either of these characters, or indeed any Amis-based stuff whatsoever. I hope I didn't screw it up too badly, and that it's OK as a fill. Unbetaed.

 

 

 

 

His footsteps take him almost unwittingly towards the one place he knows he will be welcome. The cobbles of the Rue de la Verrerie are not so familiar as those of the Latin Quarter once were, but he traverses them easily enough. There is no surprise on Courfeyrac’s face when he opens his door to him; nor would he expect there to be.

‘I have come to sleep with you,’ he says, in what is close to a monotone, and Courfeyrac does not so much as blink. He turns, and drags a mattress off his bed.

‘There.’

There. Marius lies down, sprawled inelegantly as only paupers can get away with; boots on the floor, and his coat – buttoned to the neck, as always – pushed uncomfortably against his larynx. Courfeyrac pours wine for himself, and puts water on the floor next to him; he is aware of it in the abstract way he is always aware of Courfeyrac, even now his affections have been forcibly stolen by another. He feels guilt about it when he remembers; when his thoughts come away from her long enough to allow any other emotion.

‘Listen to this.’ Courfeyrac is on his bed, lying on his front, a book between his elbows, his hands supporting his chin. Marius turns his head; if the man bent his legs up at the knee, he could be a boy under a tree somewhere, as carefree as the wind, his cheer thick enough to sustain a starving man. ‘…no, you do not want to listen to this. I will tell you of something amusing instead; Enjolras was annoyed at you last Wednesday. He wanted you to visit the marble workers and the painters at the  Barriere du Maine, only you do not come anymore. He thought you could stir them up; well, I thought to myself that it was a foolish presumption of his, as you only care about Napoleon. But he won’t hear of a man who cannot be brought to the cause, at least not if that man doesn’t wear a Guard’s uniform. I held my tongue; he was forced to send Grantaire. What? He thought to try him, we let him, it all fell about around our ears. He was caught playing dominoes instead of fanning the red flames of revolution. I don’t know who Enjolras was more cross with, you or the man himself. Not you, I expect. Still, I did laugh. Combeferre looked quite vexed with me.’

Marius lets the words roll over him, a background accompaniment to the scene in front of his eyes; two scenes, on top of each other  – the aged-grey walls of this room, lined with books and sturdy furniture, the smoke stain up the paint from the candle on the desk that never moves; and then the other, his neighbour’s hovel crowded with disguised men. And the gentleman with white hair, his silence, the words of Thenardier – _Thenardier_ , the long-lost hero, the saviour, the venerated, the swindling assassin with the false names spilling from his serpent’s tongue…his thoughts derail, and he turns his head again. Courfeyrac is not watching him, except he is. From this angle, from below – and how long has it been since he looked up at him like this? – his face seems almost unknown. Its lines are unfamiliar; for a second, the disappointment and shock of the evening sink under the clutch of fear, for if Courfeyrac is unknown to him, there is truly no one left he understands. No one who looks as they ought, who are named as they say they are.

‘I have guns in my pocket,’ he blurts. And watches…there, yes. A frown he recognises, which smooths under a grin. He will never not recognise that smile, and the relief would knock him down, were he not already there.

‘Oh? Enjolras will be pleased.’

Courfeyrac never asks questions. He has never wished he would. They are friends because they accept each other wholly as they are; they are – were? – more because none of it matters anyway. One night, their heads shared a pillow. He heard the man inform the darkness that he would probably be dead soon enough, so they might as well do as they wished. It is the only time he has known him wholly serious.

‘I should give them back to the man I got them from.’

‘Why would you want to do that? I suppose you have paid for them, or promised to; or perhaps you have used them and that’s why you’re here? Well, I suppose I should hear of this if you have, but if it is not so, do not trouble yourself.’

‘I have not used them.’

‘Then, if you do not wish them to keep the fluff in your pockets company, I will pass them on for you. I promise you that should you confront Enjolras at present, he will be exactly as cold as ever, but perhaps more curt in his thanks. Spare yourself, my friend! Leave them under the bed, and I shall make sure they are put to good use elsewhere.’

The notion of a policeman’s guns being used against the state should be either horrifying, or amusing. He cannot decide which, so feels nothing instead. Courfeyrac is watching him now, he can tell, but does not meet his gaze. ‘I will keep them for now.’

‘As it pleases you.’

Silence descends, and would be comfortable if not for the tumult in his mind. Courfeyrac never seems to feel a tumult; if one exists, he talks until he laughs, and has others laughing with him, and then it is made well again. Marius has considered in the past that this might be a useful trick to learn – changing one’s personality entirely, so it suits better – but there never seems to be enough will in him to try.

He shuts his eyes. He can smell burning flesh. Perhaps he imagines it only, but there is a chance it has stuck to his clothes. Horror creeps along his skin, causing the hairs on his arms to rise; he could be coated in the stink of another’s self-injury, caused by a man he thought to worship.

‘Courfeyrac?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I have come to sleep with you.’

‘Yes, you said. And you are here, and I have…oh!’

He opens his eyes. He is met with another grin. He does not know what his own face looks like, but he feels scared, so perhaps it shows. He had not known he was here for that reason. He had not meant it. But this is where his feet brought him, and so, there it is. ‘Only if you wish it.’

‘Of course I wish it. I am only surprised. I assumed you were in love with a girl.’

He is in love with a girl. A girl with no name – not even Ursule after tonight; a girl with a father who runs from the police, and takes a white-hot poker to his arm; a girl he can only dream he will ever see again. He is in a love so strong he cannot breathe, and does not care to eat, and cannot sleep, and does not care if he dies. It occurs to him that perhaps this is how Enjolras feels; that perhaps they are both drowning under the weight of something more powerful than all of them. And perhaps it is those around them that keep them afloat.

Courfeyrac is still smiling. Marius reaches a hand up; it is grasped by strong fingers that are stained with ink, he is pulled by an arm that will one day, he knows, hold a flag that waves in defiance. Or a gun. Perhaps the one in his pocket.

‘I am in love with a girl,’ he says, falling on to the mattress, pulled against a body. ‘I will die for this girl.’

‘Well,’ says Courfeyrac, with a snort of laughter that melts into a frank appraisal with his eyes. ‘That’s as may be – and what finer thing to die for, than love of something? – but I hope you weren’t planning on doing it tonight.’

He feels fingers at the top button of his coat, which he wears closed to cover the state of his shirt. But Courfeyrac will not care a fig for that. ‘No,’ he says, and closes his eyes once more. It is fine thing, to find yourself on solid ground when you thought it had all fallen away. He imagines the twinkle in Courfeyrac’s eye that is surely there, the awakenings of interest in his body, the hunger that will start to grow the more buttons are unfastened. Yes, these are things that need no name, and wear no face. And therefore, the only things to be trusted. ‘No indeed. Not tonight.’

 

 

 


End file.
